Intoxication
by Anidori-Kiladra
Summary: "You realize that this officially makes me jailbait, right?" No matter what she does, Pansy Parkinson can't seem to get Malcolm Baddock out of her head. Or her bed, for that matter.
1. Poker Night

Intoxication, or The Dangers of Alcohol and How Pansy Dealt with Them, Mainly by Making Really Bad Decisions

Chapter One: Poker Night

* * *

It all started out innocently enough.

It was poker night in the Slytherin common room that particular evening. Draco's idea, of course. Ever since the start of seventh year, he'd insisted on these "House bonding" activities, to bring them all closer, he said. To unite them in a front against all those fools and traitors who inhabited the school.

It was a good idea in theory, but when the bonding activities included such things as illicit midnight outings to Hogsmeade and poker night, things quickly spiraled into chaos. Because whatever they did, someone always managed to procure an exorbitant amount of alcohol.

And that was where all the trouble started, really. Alcohol and its evil wiles. For whenever alcohol was introduced, people got friendlier, poker became strip poker, and such was the case with Pansy and Malcolm.

She hadn't meant to end up playing poker with Malcolm, by any means. The fourteen year old Slytherin had never held her interest much, except to irritate her occasionally. But Blaise had gone off with Daphne, as usual, and Draco was who-knew-where and hell if she wanted to see Crabbe and Goyle in any state of undress, so her options were rather limited.

"Trip queens. What've you got, Pans?" asked Malcolm, peering up at her mischievously through his sandy fringe.

Pansy sighed. "Pair of fives and an ace." She had never been a great hand at poker. Or any game, for that matter. She'd liked the Hogsmeade rendezvous so much better. At least there had been dancing there. "And don't call me Pans, Baddock, or I'll break your face."

"I'll call you whatever you like once you take your shirt off." Really, Pansy didn't know why she was just now realizing the extent of Malcolm's insufferable brattishness.

But still, the rules dictated that she comply, as she'd already lost shoes and socks and hairband, although Malcolm had complained bitterly that that didn't count.

So she tugged at her hem, thinking that it could be worse, at least bra—wise. Judging by the gleeful look in Malcolm's eyes, he certainly didn't seem disappointed that it was the plain black and not the red and lacy one she'd considered wearing that day.

And then Pansy became aware that Malcolm's saucer-like orbs were not the only eyes fixed on her breasts.

"Shove off," she told Crabbe and Goyle, dismayed to hear the slight slur in her voice. Oh, honestly. They'd never take her seriously now. Not until after a few quick punches, at least.

"I'm going to bed," she informed Malcolm, gathering her scattered items.

"I'll get the cards and meet you in your room," he said, as if he expected nothing else.

Pansy ignored him, hoping the cheeky little bugger would get the hint and leave. But he didn't. Of course he didn't.

Pansy had no sooner flopped down onto her bed in the mercifully empty dormitory (although she did wonder where Millicent had gone off to; she hadn't seen her in the common room) when Malcolm bounded in, dropping cards all over the floor.

Pansy sat up and gave him her best glare. "Malcolm," she enunciated clearly. "I do not want to play cards with you anymore. Go away please."

He pouted. "But I didn't even get to strip."

Pansy threw up her hands. "Fine, you unimaginable pest. Strip if it makes you feel better. But then you leave."

"Then I'll leave," he repeated, ducking his head to hide a smile and beginning to unbutton his shirt. Pansy had the distinct impression that he was mocking her but in her drunken state couldn't confirm it. It hurt her head thinking about it.

But then she wasn't thinking at all anymore, because Malcolm had flicked open the last button and shrugged off the sleeves of his shirt.

It wasn't as though he were ugly. But he wasn't especially good looking either. So Pansy really couldn't explain to herself why the sight of Malcolm with his slightly scrawny torso, biting his lip and looking at her through his fringe captivated her so. She couldn't take her eyes off him, and quite suddenly became aware that she was only wearing a bra and a skirt that had hiked up rather scandalously around her thighs while she lay on the bed.

Malcolm was now toeing off his shoes, all trace of his mocking smile gone now. He padded over to the bed, leaned over her.

Pansy had started to cross her arms over her chest, but something made her stop and reach out to grab Malcolm's shoulders instead.

She felt no muscle definition under her fingers as she slid them down over his upper arms, only sinew and skin. Skinny, in the truest sense of the word. The arms of a child.

Malcolm had stopped, stiffened when she touched him. Normally, Pansy knew, she was taller than him. But leaning over her like this, he was just the right height. If she tipped her chin up just so…

Malcolm's mouth was warm on hers, moist, with the bitter tang of tequila and something heavier, like apples perhaps. Pansy sank into the kiss, reached up to wrap her arms around Malcolm's neck before she realized what she was doing. Then she remembered how thin his arms were, those arms now hovering hesitantly over her hips, hands not quite grasping. She remembered that he was fourteen years old and she was drunk.

She pulled away. "I meant what I said before," she said, hearing her own voice cold and distant in her ears, but also breathless. "You've had your fun, now leave."

And with that, she rolled over and pulled the blankets haphazardly around her.

He didn't shut the door on his way out.

xXx

A/N: So, here we bear witness to my insanity. I did not mean to start a new story, and then once I started it, I did not mean for it to be more than a one-shot. But such is life, and there will probably be around four chapters. Let me know what you think of it so far.


	2. Fringe

Intoxication

Chapter Two: Fringe

* * *

"Pansy."

Pansy tried to open her eyes, but couldn't. She could tell they were gummy without reaching up to feel them, but she did anyway, fingers wiping away the slight gooeyness.

"What?"

"Pans, it's nearly noon." Daphne poked the side of her head with a long fingernail, exacerbating the pain tenfold.

"Ouch, don't touch me." She rolled over and managed to peel one eyelid back to glare at the offending nail.

"I barely touched you. Now get out of bed. I'm hungry, and the others already went down to lunch."

"You're seventeen years old, Daph. When are you going to learn how to walk to the Great Hall by yourself?"

"Never." Daphne grinned, and poked her again. "Now get up."

As Pansy stumbled painfully out of bed, head pounding with every step, she wondered why her lips felt so tender and why she wasn't wearing a shirt. She bent down over her trunk, reaching for some fresh robes, and the events of the previous night slammed into her. Poker, Malcolm, her bed, his arms. That kiss. Her hand slipped off the lid of the trunk and in slammed down hard on her bent knee.

"Damn," she murmured. This was not shaping into a pleasant morning at all.

* * *

Pansy realized, she knew, that it was wrong (even by Slytherin standards, _especially_ by Slytherin standards) for a seventeen year old witch to go around kissing a fourteen year old wizard. Especially like that, drunk in her room on poker night. It's just not the done thing at all and Pansy didn't know why she had done it, except that, when his fringe had fallen in his eyes like that, hands on the buttons of his shirt, he'd seemed…older somehow. So it wasn't Pansy's fault really.

Pansy also realized that she was lying to herself. He hasn't seemed older. He had seemed, in fact, impossibly young, like a tiny cherub (a tiny, bratty, drunk cherub) undressing himself in her room, and she by the time she and Daphne reached the Great Hall, Daphne having been strangely silent the whole way down, playing with her hair and smoothing her skirt, probably on the off-chance Blaise was still in the Hall, she still hadn't figured out why she'd kissed him. So she decided to blame the alcohol.

It was all very logical, really.

Approaching the Slytherin table, Pansy saw that the unpleasantness of the morning was doomed to continue, for sitting at one end talking animatedly to Graham Pritchard was one Malcolm Baddock, and she was going to have to pass right by him.

"Hey Pansy," he said, giving her a smile that pretended to be shy but still held a hint of a leer. She gave him a curt nod in response.

Immediately, Malcolm's smile froze and his eyes dropped. He looked so tiny and pathetic, like a kicked kitten, that for a second Pansy wanted to reach out to him and apologize, but the larger part of her was sure that that would only lead to ruin, so she kept her eyes on Daphne's back as she followed her to the end of the table, where Draco Malfoy was holding court.

But even Draco's animated discussion of Muggle Studies couldn't distract Pansy totally from the eyes she felt boring holes in her back. All right, so she couldn't feel Baddock's eyes, but when she turned around to glance at him-just to make sure he didn't still have that horrible kitten expression-she saw that he was looking at her.

He turned away as soon as he saw her looking, laughing extra hard at Pritchard's no doubt boring story, but it was as if, just by taking that one extra look around at him, Pansy had started something she could not stop.

It didn't make even a little bit of sense. Before yesterday, Malcolm Baddock could not have mattered less to Pansy, unless perhaps he'd been a Hufflepuff. Did it make sense that one bout of drunken kissing should make that much difference? Pansy didn't know.

But now she saw him everywhere she went. On the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts the next morning, he was lounging in the hall, and on the way back to the Slytherin common room from Transfiguration, he walked in front of her, bouncing a little with each step. And Pansy began noticing things she'd never even considered before.

Like the fact that his fringe was not just in need of a trim but ridiculously too long. He flicked it out of his eyes so constantly that Pansy wanted to grab a fistful of sandy hair and chop it off herself. Or that his cool nonchalance, and all the lounging, was a bit too casual to be entirely believable.

But there were other things too. The way the tendons in his hands stood out when he carried half a dozen books, or that he chewed on the ends of his sleeves when he thought no one was looking. And those things seemed to matter rather more than the others.

He did have rather nice hands, and Pansy found herself wanting almost against her will to watch him chew his sleeves into a sodden mess.

Watching him like this, Malcolm Baddock did not seem like the irritating fourth year she had always seen, striving only to be like Draco Malfoy, careless and blond.

Watching him like this, Pansy couldn't help wanting to kiss him again.

xXx

A/N: At long last, the next chapter is up! I'm sure you were all waiting with baited breath. No? Well, review anyway, and I will love you forever…or something.


	3. Witching Hour

Intoxication

Chapter 3: Witching Hour

Pansy couldn't for the life of her figure out what she was doing out of bed, dressed, and standing in the Slytherin common room at three o'clock in the morning.

Actually, she knew exactly what she was doing, and that's what made her so mad. She didn't mind lying to other people. It was almost always rather fun, in fact, but she drew the line at lying to herself. Or at least that's the way it used to be.

She tapped her fingertips on the mantelpiece in impatience. Why wasn't Daphne here yet? It was her stupid dare, and she'd promised she'd be there to see it played out.

It wasn't only stupid because Pansy didn't want to do it, either. It really was a stupid dare. Pansy shuddered to imagine the myriad Gryffindor brats who'd already accomplished stealing a cake from the kitchen in the dead of night, but, "That's the way the game works," Daphne'd insisted, adding, "Make sure it's double chocolate!" as Pansy hauled herself off the bed to throw some clothes on and Daphne rolled over for "Only five minutes, I promise."

And yet now Pansy had been waiting downstairs for nearly 15. She sighed, feeling very long-suffering. The things she did for friendship.

She heard a noise behind her and dropped her hand from the mantle, turning. "Finally," she said. "Now was it really that difficult to—"

And stopped as she saw who had slid open the door leading to not the girls' dormitory, but the boys'. "Hello Pansy," Malcolm said. "Fancy meeting you here."

"You know," she said, peeved, whether at him or at herself she wasn't sure. "You would sound a lot more nonchalant if your voice didn't keep cracking."

"Hey," he said, moving closer. Pansy clenched her hands in the back of her shirt. "It's not my fault."

She didn't say anything.

"So," Malcolm continued after a moment. "I thought I heard something in here, but I thought maybe Bulstrode left her cat out again."

Pansy still said nothing, but this time, because she had no idea what to say. She knew she should walk away now, make an excuse, go back to bed before anything happened. Not that anything would happen anyway.

Baddock was apparently not averse to carrying on a conversation all on his own. "So what are you doing down here, Pans?"

"I thought I told you not to call me that." Her voice sounded shrill, ugly and too loud in the relative silence.

"Sorry." He stood there, not looking sorry at all, taking another step closer to her, even.

"I'm on a dare for Daphne if you must know. She was supposed to meet me down here."

Another step. He was only a few feet away now. "Oh. Well, I'll dare you something, if you like."

Pansy looked at him as he edged closer, really looked at him and saw his eyes mischievous and glittering behind his fringe, his mouth half turned up at the corners. And she was so tired, tired of noticing Malcolm bloody Baddock, that she figured there were only two courses of action she could possibly take, and one was absolutely out of the question.

"Is this your idea of flirting or something, Baddock," she spat out harshly. "Because if so, I feel it is my duty to inform you that you have failed miserably."

She started to spin on her heel and march away, but was pulled up short by Malcolm's fingers closing over her wrist. She looked back at him in exasperation, and saw his expression change from one of initial hurt into…was it wonder?

"You're shaking," he said, and then, turning her hand over palm-up in his, "And what's this?"

She couldn't see her own hand over his bent head. She could feel his fringe tickling her palm, then his moist breath ghosting over it, then the tentative brush of a finger. She jumped, and he let go.

"You're bleeding," he said as she pulled her hand back to herself, and, examining it, she saw that he was right. She had dug her nails far enough in to break the skin.

Malcolm had crossed the room as she gazed at the tiny smear of blood on her palm, and now stood with his hand on the door to the boys' dormitories. "Well, I'm back to bed," he said. "Lovely chatting with you, Pansy. Have fun with your dare." And he pushed open the door and slipped inside.

As soon as he was gone, Pansy felt furious. How dare he? She was supposed to be the one who walked away. How did he keep gaining the upper hand in these situations?

She wanted to have the last word, and that was the only explanation for what she did next, which was to push open the door Malcolm had just disappeared behind.

Once in the corridor, she hesitated. This was an even stupider idea than Daphne's dare, yet she still found herself making her way toward the fourth year dormitory.

The door was open a crack, and there was a hair of pale light stretching into the hallway. Pansy pushed the door open farther and saw Malcolm in the bed closest the door, his wand alight and his back to her, in the process of pulling his shirt off.

Pansy ceased trying to find any reason for what she was doing, as they were never satisfactory anyway, and took a step forward, putting her hand on Malcolm's hip and spinning him around to face her.

He had not gotten his shirt all the way off. His arms were raised, and they and his head were both still encased in the soft green fabric. Pansy pressed her lips to the general region where she thought his mouth should be.

"Pans," came the muffled voice, trying and completely failing to sound nonchalant again. "That's my nose."

Pansy giggled, then wanted to kick herself. Pansy Parkinson did not giggle.  
But apparently Pansy Parkinson had no problem with reaching out and roughly pulling Malcolm Baddock's shirt off his head, briefly exposing his tousled hair and bemused expression before diving right back for his mouth, aiming properly this time.

There lips met hard, Malcolm tentative at first but soon pushing back as hard as she was. Pansy opened her mouth and he breathed hot into it.

Pansy sat back as the clock on the mantle began dimly chiming four o'clock. One, two, three, four. Four. _Fourteen._

Malcolm looked at her. Pansy looked at his hand still cupping her elbow. She heard his deep intake of breath and felt the way his hand clenched ever so slightly. "Pansy, is it safe to kiss you again? I don't actually want to be kicked out of my own dormitory, see."

Pansy sighed, putting all thoughts of clocks and numbers out of her mind, and sat on the edge of Malcolm's bed. "Yes."


	4. I Like a Boy in Uniform, School Uniform

Chapter 4: I Like a Boy in Uniform (School Uniform)

A/N: Standard disclaimer applies. Also, this chapter is titled after the Pipettes song of the same name, which is fantastic and bears absolutely no resemblance to the story.

This chapter is for Amadea, because I admire her writing so very, very much, and because she always leaves me such lovely, lovely reviews. Thank you.

* * *

"You realize this officially makes me jailbait, right?" Malcolm asked, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at Pansy.

She smiled up at him. "Just lying next to you in your bed doesn't count, Baddock," she said. "Not unless there's actual sex involved."

"Which I feel you should know I am not at all opposed to."

Pansy reached over and shoved him. He wobbled precariously, but managed to stay on the bed by clutching the sheets with both hands. Pansy watched him regain his balance and tip his head back in his hand again, still looking at her inquisitively.

"No sex, Baddock," Pansy said firmly, then sat up and opened the curtains carefully. Outside the silencing charmed haven of Malcolm's bed, Malcolm's fellow fourth years continued to snore. She tiptoed around the bed, grabbing up her shoes from the floor. "We don't have the time now, anyway. It's nearly six."

Pansy heard Malcolm groan from inside the curtains. "Let's just skive off classes today, Pansy. We can stay in bed all day."

Pansy poked her head back inside the heavy green drapes. "You know that wouldn't work."

He grabbed her forearm. "Then just come here for a minute." Pansy allowed herself to be pulled onto the bed again, half sitting, half leaning over Malcolm. He kept pulling on her arm. "Lie on me," he said.

"What?" Pansy almost squeaked, extremely taken aback.

"Lie on me," he insisted. "I want to feel you."

Pansy felt extremely self-conscious. She also felt the need to snort inelegantly at Malcolm's choice of words. But the self-consciousness won. By a landslide, as it were. Leaning over him, she was ridiculously aware of how big she was, with her wide hips and full breasts, compared to him. "Baddock, I'd crush you."

"I don't care. I want you to."

He was biting his lip. He was biting his damn lip and looking up at her through that sandy, uncut fringe, and Pansy's heart was gaining momentum, so she decided to go with her new policy of never thinking ever again.

She levered herself carefully over him on the bed, legs aligned with his, taking the weight off her arms little by little until they were pressed irresistibly together, every possible point on their bodies touching. Pansy didn't know exactly what Malcolm had meant when he'd said he wanted to feel her, but she could feel _him_ all right, and had to suppress a tiny giggle.

Malcolm blushed, and shifted slightly. "Do you want me to get off you now?" Pansy breathed, still holding back a laugh at his obvious discomfort. He was only fourteen, and he could talk all he wanted, but anyone could see that he didn't have the faintest clue how to go about actually doing anything.

"No," he said. "But you could get me off, if you like."

At that, Pansy couldn't help herself, and burst out laughing. She bent her head to let it fall against his neck.

"What?" Malcolm asked, peeved.

"Was that-supposed to be seductive?" Pansy asked, still laughing a little.

Malcolm pressed his lips together tightly. Pansy got the impression that he would be crossing his arms too, if she wasn't in his way.

"I'm sorry, No, I really am." She leaned down to kiss him softly. "You're sweet, Baddock, but I'm going to go now." She rolled off him, wondering why she continued to call him Baddock when in her head, sometime, somewhere in between all the noticing and all the excellent (though at times fumbling) snogging, he had become Malcolm.

* * *


	5. Love Letters and Midnight Meetings

Chapter 5: Love Letters and Midnight Meetings

A/N: Perhaps this would have been more appropriate in earlier chapters, but I found this quote and thought of this story. And then I thought I would share it with all of you.

"The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it." ~Oscar Wilde.

Good old Oscar. I hope you enjoy the next chapter and don't forget to review!

* * *

He had passed her a note. He had passed her a note in the hallway, slipped it into her hand as she brushed by him on the way to Divination. And now she was clutching it in her left hand and she could feel a pleased blush creeping its way up her cheeks and this had all gotten completely out of hand.

Pansy had to duck into the second floor bathroom so no one would see her giddy smile and thus ruin her image forever. Image was very important, after all. If anyone were to find out that Pansy Parkinson was sleeping with—well, not _sleeping_ with, but, anyway—Malcolm Baddock, possibly the_ least _Slytherin of all Slytherins ever, well. She wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

"What's that paper? Is it a love letter?" broke in a gloomy voice, and Pansy was startled out of her reverie and found herself clutching the note to her chest like, well like some kind of Gryffindor or something.

Moaning Myrtle stood behind Pansy, poking her head out of a stall. "It's none of your business," Pansy snapped.

"I got a love letter once," Myrtle said, and Pansy could hear the sound of her tears starting up as she went back into the stall.  
With that as background music, Pansy opened the note.

_Dear Pans, _it read_. _

_ I had a great time last night, if you know what I mean. Wait, of course you know what I mean, you were there. Well, anyway, jolly good times and all. Want to meet tonight at midnight in the Trophy Room for a bit more of the same?_

_Love__ Malcolm _

Pansy let out a squeal of delight and was promptly horrified at herself. But she couldn't help it really. He was just too damn adorable for his own good. Oh, she'd meet him tonight. She'd meet him as he'd never been met before. Whatever that meant.

xXx

The day passed treacherously slowly after that. At lunch, Draco took a short break from staring moonily over at Daphne where she was sitting going over wand movements with Millicent (and Pansy wondered briefly when _that_ had started and didn't Draco realize it was pointless? Daphne and Blaise had been firmly a thing for months now.) to ask her what the hell was wrong with her, why wasn't she eating those disgusting fried potatoes she claimed were her favorite, but Pansy just swatted at him and tried to resist doing some moony staring of her own.

Malcolm was sitting in his usual place at the end of the table with his fellow idiots. They were laughing uproariously at something and seemed to be doing impressions of particularly drunk scarecrows, windmilling their arms about ridiculously. But then Malcolm looked her way and shot her a quick grin and she felt as if melted sugar candy were dripping through her insides. Only, not gross like that would actually be.

Then Theodore said something darkly under his breath.

"What?" Pansy asked.

"Oh, nothing." Theodore looked up at her from his slumped position across the table, twirling some disgusting-looking vegetable on his fork. "I just never took you for the nurturing type, Pansy."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean?" But he had gone back to shoveling the stringy mush into his mouth and only shook his head at her.

When she next darted a glance at the end of the table, all of Malcolm's scarecrow mates had flown off to class, but he was lingering, standing by the table and stacking biscuits into a tower.

Then, as she watched, Daphne's little sister—Astrid, Pansy thought she was called—sidled up to Malcolm and tugged on his sleeve. She couldn't hear what the girl was saying, but she saw the way she looked up at him and jerked her head, so she must have been suggesting they walk to class together.

Pansy snorted. Poor girl. She obviously liked him. But she would be doomed to disappointment, because what boy in his right mind would go after a hideously tiny fourteen-year-old when they could have a seventh year with actual breasts? No one. Obviously. And Pansy found herself smirking as she too strode off to class.

xXx

That night at fifteen minutes till midnight, Pansy slid out of bed, trying to avoid rustling the hangings and creaking the floor. But it was all useless, because as she was slipping out the common room door, she ran right into Daphne. Who gasped and then immediately began giggling.

"What are _you _doing out here?" Pansy asked when she had collected herself.

But Daphne only giggled harder and Pansy supposed that was answer enough.

"Pansy," Daphne gasped, clutching at her hand to hold herself upright. "You'll never believe what I just saw."

Pansy shook her off. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't want to hear anything about Blaise's intimate bits."

Daphne put a hand over her mouth and leaned against the door, shoulders shaking, but when Pansy moved away, Daphne grabbed her in a tight hug and whispered, "Be careful," in her ear.

Pansy gave her a look and Daphne shrugged. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Don't worry," Pansy said. Honestly, Daph could be so weird sometimes. It was lucky she was so pretty.

When Pansy reached the Trophy Room, Malcolm wasn't there. She lit her wand and began to circle the room, peering into dark corners for other people doing…exactly what they were planning to do, once Malcolm finally got here.

Then, as she reached the corner farthest from the door, an arm shot out and grabbed her and she shrieked. A hand clapped over her mouth momentarily and a voice said, "Shh."

"Who is it?" she hissed. Then the someone pulled on her arm until she turned and her wandlight fell on his face.

"It's me, Peeves," Malcolm said matter-of-factly. "And also Filch and a prefect and possibly Mrs. Norris, or whoever else you thought would be grabbing you who wasn't me." He grinned at her. "Idiot," he said, his voice soft.

"Oh, shut up," she said, swinging her free arm at him, but he grabbed that too, and then moved forward and kissed her.

It was soft and sloppy in the near-dark, and she dropped her wand and what little light there was vanished.

"I've missed you," he whispered, turning her so her back was to the wall and pushing his knee between hers.

"You saw me six hours ago at dinner, you imbecile," she said. "And before that at lunch. Just what were you and your little friends doing, anyway? You looked insane."

"But you were looking."

"You're ridiculous."

"You like it."

"You wish."

"You—I love you."

Pansy stopped still, her hands frozen where they were reaching for the hem of his shirt. She could hear him breathing heavy in her ear, his heart beating fast against her chest. "You what?"

He took a step back and stared at her resolutely. "I love you."

He bit his lip and Pansy could hardly swallow for all the emotion in her throat. She felt her eyes brimming with tears and didn't know why because she also wanted to laugh and she also wanted to sit down and try to think of the last time someone had said that to her because she couldn't remember.

"Malcolm," she said, and pulled him tight to her, resting her chin on his sandy hair and he was the one who laughed, choked, against her collarbone.

When Pansy went to bed that night, her mouth was still buzzing from Malcolm's kisses and her limbs felt heavy, but she thought if not for her heavy blanket she could float right off the bed.


	6. Angst Rears Its Ugly Head

Chapter 6: Angst Rears Its Ugly Head

"I saw you talking to her again."

The past three weeks had probably been the best of Pansy's life, loath as she was to admit that her happiness was due to a boy, a _child_. But nevertheless, she had been happy. Except about the ever-increasing conversations she witnessed between Malcolm and Astrid ("Honestly, Pansy, it's Astoria. You practically spent all of last summer at our house, you should know my little sister's name," Daphne said, sighing, but Pansy just waved a hand. It didn't matter what the girl's name was, just that she was _there_, interfering with Pansy's boy-derived happiness.)

Because it wasn't just _conversations_ they were having. The girl was constantly touching Malcolm's arm or reaching out to hug him, laughing at his jokes and sending him shy, coy looks from beneath her lashes. It was sickening, but worse was the way Malcolm reacted, laughing and telling her it was nothing, honestly, that Astoria was a sweet girl but they were just friends. And when Pansy asked, "Does she know that?" with her voice embarrassingly shrill, Malcolm only shrugged and said, "Pansy, does it matter?"

And so Pansy tried to shrug and pretend it didn't, because that was what Malcolm wanted. And it was what she wanted too. Pansy didn't want to be jealous, didn't want to nag at Malcolm like the desperate, insecure girls who wrote into _Teen Witch Weekly_, asking the agony aunt to read the signs and tell them if their boyfriends were messing around on them.

Pansy knew that Malcolm wouldn't do that to her. She could tell by the way he closed his eyes halfway when she stroked his cheek with one finger, and the way they looked almost dazed when he opened them again. She could tell by the way he held her tight but oh-so-careful, dipping her back over the railings in abandoned stairwells until she smacked his shoulder and told him to lift her back up right now Malcolm Baddock or god help her she was going to curse his manly bits off. She could tell by the way he grinned wickedly and said then that wouldn't be very much fun for her now, would it?

Oh, well, maybe that last part didn't ensure his undying love for her, but she was fairly sure about it nonetheless. And besides, when they spent almost every night together (Daphne had given up asking Pansy where she was sneaking off to, but Pansy was fairly sure Daph knew anyway), when would Malcolm have time to be sneaking around with some other girl?

So Pansy didn't _want_ to be acting like some jealous, insecure twit, but the fact remained that she _was_ a jealous, insecure twit. And so after three weeks of biting her tongue, she found herself disentangling said tongue from Malcolm's mouth one evening and snapping out, "Would it be so hard just not to talk to her at all?"

They had snuck out of the castle entirely that night, holding hands while tiptoeing across the Entrance Hall and sliding out the door to run giggling through the damp grass toward the greenhouses. Now their breath made white ghosts in the air, but Pansy could feel the heat of the greenhouse at her back. She stepped away from it and from him and crossed her arms.

"What?" Malcolm looked confused. "Not talk to who?"

"You're too smart to play dumb," she said, but when he continued to look at him, she added, "Astoria. You know, the girl who is in love with you." She enunciated the last four words very carefully, as if each were a separate brick she was laying down between them.

Malcolm sighed and ran a hand up through his hair before meeting her gaze. "I suppose it's not any use telling you that I love you and that she means nothing to me?"

Pansy felt the brief flare of warmth blossom in the middle of her chest, the way it always did when he told her he loved her, which was practically a daily occurrence now, but held firm. "No."

Malcolm looked at her exasperatedly, then his eyes fixed over her shoulder at the foggy pane of glass. After a moment, he took a deep breath and looked at her again, his mouth set.

"Maybe this is a good thing," he said. "I've been meaning to talk to you for a while, but I wasn't quite sure how to bring it up."

Hiss voice was more serious than she had ever heard it before and she felt her stomach begin to twist.

"What?" she asked, and was dismayed at how breathless she sounded, all the air gone out of her.

"This has been great Pansy," he began, and suddenly it was like every nightmare come to life, with crashing realizations and bitter disappointment. "I mean, obviously I never dreamed that something, someone this great would happen to me." Pansy felt slightly better for a moment, hearing that, but then felt sick again as soon as Malcolm continued. " But…" He paused, twisting his hands together.

"But you've discovered that you actually like boys?" Pansy asked, trying to keep a teasing smile on her face while inside her intestines roiled.

He turned to look at her. "You'd like that, would you? No, it's just, Pansy, I want a girlfriend, not a secret love affair."

"Oh." Pansy thought of all the sighs when she said, "See you tonight," and the sad looks when she didn't do more than give him a tight nod in the Great Hall and suddenly it all made a lot more sense. She had never even considered the fact that Malcolm could be more than just a secret, or at least she had firmly squashed such ideas before they ever really rose in her consciousness. Because he _couldn't _be. He was just a fourth year, after all, and they would all look at her like she was crazy or like she was sick and Pansy didn't even know, what if it was illegal? What, she wondered with an ominous swoop of her stomach, would her mother say?

But she didn't have much time to think, because apparently Malcolm wasn't done.

"And Pansy, if we could just be open about this," he gestured to the two of them. "Astoria wouldn't talk to me anymore! I'm sure of it. Or at least, not the way she does now. I mean, you're scary!" She raised her eyebrows, fighting to keep her bottom lip from trembling and he fumbled, reaching out for her hand. "Not to me! But if you didn't know you." He waves his hands, as if to disperse this last topic. "And anyway, why can't we just date like normal people? I don't see what you're so afraid of! I love you and I know you love me too."

His eyes got very dark as he said this, and his grip on her hand tightened. It was probably bravodo on his part, saying it, but Pansy thought it might be true. She looked away, so he wouldn't someone read this in her face and think he'd won.

Suddenly, it was all too much, his hand on her hand and the cool of the night making her shiver. Through her mind flashed the faces of everyone she cared about, Daph looking worried and Draco sneering and her mother saying she'd known they shouldn't have sent her to Hogwarts, they had such odd ideas there about what was proper.

"Just go out with me, Pans," Malcolm whispered and the way he said her name was what broke her, what made her feel as though her insides were crumbling and her legs couldn't hold her up any longer.

She took a step away from him, breaking the contact, and the night air was unbearably cold where his hand had just been. "I can't do that," she said, hearing the tears in her voice and so she forced herself to make it go strong and only heard it come out cold and slightly robotic. "Maybe I can't do this anymore at all."

Malcolm looked lost, as lost as Pansy felt, and so she turned away before she could cry in earnest and ran back across the now drenched grass, managing to make it back to her bed before she collapsed, sobbing and shaking so hard she was afraid she'd never stop.


	7. Full (Alcoholic) Circle

Chapter Seven: Full (Alcoholic) Circle

It wasn't supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be easy, sexy, illicit, underage fun with someone that Pansy didn't care about in any real way, whose flaws were so on-the-surface that she'd been sure she never would.

Pansy should have known it wouldn't be like that, didn't work that way. At least, not for her. Hufflepuffs (gag) may have been the loyal ones, but Slytherins stuck by each other through thick and thin, moral ambiguity and unspeakably drunk poker nights.

Slytherins—or at least, ones like Pansy—didn't ever do anything halfway. Lord, it had taken her _years _to get over Draco, years of telling herself that he didn't care about her that way until she realized that finally, finally she didn't either.

But Malcolm was again different. With Draco it wasn't like they'd ever done anything but make out in her bed after the Yule Ball, and Draco'd always looked at her with a tenderness that seemed to go beyond but somewhere to the side of the sensation of their lips touching.

And then there was that Durmstrang boy she'd met on holiday in Germany two summers ago, the one with a thick accent and thicker fingers that felt simultaneously good and strange drifting over her and pulsing inside her. There'd been no tenderness there, just hot rough feeling, the kind that soared through her but didn't leave much of a mark.

Malcolm was something between the two, but—crazy as Pansy would have called herself if she'd thought all this a month ago—what she felt when she thought about Malcolm sat high above anything she'd ever felt before: this strange trembling need, this fierce happiness, this soft fondness she felt for Malcolm, all swirled together until she had no idea _what _she felt anymore, except that she wanted to know that he was _hers_ and couldn't be taken away by some girl who wasn't embarrassed to parade him on her arm around the common room.

Which made her a ridiculous hypocrite, and Pansy gnashed her teeth because who was she becoming?

Daphne looked at her with alarm.

"Whatever is wrong with you, Pansy?" she asked. "You've been sitting there growling at the wall for twenty minutes now. Even Millicent is frightened."

Millicent, who was—it appeared, though clearly Pansy's eyes were glazed over from idiotic schoolgirl worries and she was mistaken—doodling love hearts on her Potions homework, looked up. "What's that?" she asked.

"Pansy's in love with a _boy_ and she doesn't know what to do," Daphne singsonged.

"I am not in love with anyone," Pansy announced firmly and rationally. "I am perfectly fine."

"Are you sure?" Daph asked, cocking her head. "Because you don't normally growl at walls, you know, so I just wondered."

"I don't want to talk about it," Pansy said, crossing her arms and continuing to stare at the wall.

Daphne slid in beside her and put her arm around Pansy's shoulders. "Well, you better buck up. Draco sent around a note at breakfast and we're having another poker night tonight."

"You must be joking," Pansy said, turning to look at Daphne. Daphne shook her head and in that moment Pansy knew for certain that the universe was out to get her. "That is the last thing I want to do."

"Are you sure?" Daphne asked, nudging Pansy with her elbow, her lips curving up into a grin. "Because I happened to come upon some vodka that changes flavor based on what color you're thinking of. But if you don't want to try it…"

Pansy sighed. Daph knew her great weakness—aside, apparently, from infuriating fourth years with infuriating hair and stupid beautiful hands—was novelty alcohol. "Oh, fine," she said, "I'll come. But I won't have any fun."

Daphne stood and clapped her hands together. "We'll see about that!" Then, leaning over Pansy, she whispered. "Don't worry, I'll be your bodyguard, make sure you don't run into Malcolm."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Pansy said loftily. "Or who, for that matter. That name means nothing to me. I'm not sure I even know who that is."

Pansy was sure she wasn't fooling anyone, even Millicent, who hastily shuffled her papers to cover up her doodles of "Millicent Bullstrode +" Pansy couldn't quite see who (she'd narrowed it down to Crabbe or Goyle—during her sidelong glances at Malcolm over meals the past few weeks, she'd spotted Millicent looking toward one of the two hulking boulders that always sat on either side of Draco—but she couldn't pinpoint which one), but still, the pretense had to be made. Daphne giggled and linked her arm through Pansy's. "So, girls, what are we going to wear?"

x

Pansy sat slumped in one of the high armchairs in front of the fire, nursing a bright orange drink (which was occasionally shot through with flashes of red) and watching her sequined top sparkle in the firelight. Well, Daphne's sequined top, she corrected herself as she started to pull it self-consciously down over her stomach before deciding she didn't care; Pansy owned a distinct lack of pink things.

Daphne sat on the arm of her chair, chattering and smiling and twirling her hair at Blaise as he grinned wolfishly down at her, and Pansy knew she couldn't count on Daphne's company for two much longer. It was a tribute to their friendship that Daph had hung around with her and prodded her through her moping this long.

The reason for the moping, of course, stood across the common room. Malcolm looked tense and unhappy (good, thought Pansy savagely), leaning against the wall and flicking back his fringe at intervals of approximately three and a half seconds.

Which was definitely extremely annoying, and not cute at all.

Taking a step past annoying and ambling right into the realm of extremely maddening (Pansy's drink turned a deep red) was the sight of Astoria's blonde head (attached to a dress that was much too short for a fourth year; well, perhaps Pansy could have gotten away with it, but this twig definitely couldn't, she was practically falling out of it everywhere it was possible to fall out) waggling up to Malcolm and lingering by him.

Because she was staring quite unblinkingly at him, Pansy caught the brief moment when his eyes looked up, past Astoria, and caught hers, and she thought she saw pain in them. She looked away. Probably she had been mistaken. If she hadn't been staring like a gargoyle, she wouldn't have seen anything at all.

But she couldn't stop herself from looking back a moment later, and there was no mistaking the way Malcolm was smiling at Astoria, the way he pushed his fringe off his forehead and gestured to the haphazard pile of cards on the floor beside him.

Panic surged through her and Pansy looked away before she could see him sit down, could see the inevitable flashing that would occur when Astoria sat down with him. That was it. This was the moment. Pansy couldn't take it anymore.

She wasn't sure when she'd lost control of her limbs, but it felt like someone'd put jellylegs on both her legs and her arms (there must've been a curse for that too) as she stood up and immediately fell into the person standing beside her chair. She grasped what felt like a tie and wondered when Daph had put that on. She shuddered as she considered that maybe she and Blaise were halfway through a game of dress-up, right here in the common room.

"Need your help," she said, making a great effort to articulate that nevertheless came out mumbled. "Les go to the room."

Daphne made a sort of choked coughing sound, but Pansy just set off with purpose toward the girls' dormitories, dragging Daphne with her, not letting go until they'd made it all the way down the corridor, through the door, and Pansy had flopped backwards onto her bed.

It was only then that she looked up, followed the line of her arm to the cloth her hand is clutching, up past a hunched shoulder and the twisted scowl of Theodore Nott.

"Oh, Theo," she says. "I didn't realize it was you."

He scowled harder, mouth twisting in a way that human mouths were definitely not supposed to move. "Yes, I noticed that. And don't call me Theo." He tugged his head ineffectually, and she released her grip on his tie. He stood up.

"Why not?" Pansy asked.

Around his scowl, Pansy thought she detected the hint of a blush. "Only my mum calls me that, if you must know. You're lucky I never take advantage of a lady when she's drunk, or I'd hex you right now."

"I didn't know you didn't like to be called Theo," Pansy said, and considered the fact that despite sitting within a few places of each other at dinner and attending class together for seven years, they weren't really all that close.

Then she considered that he was here in her bedroom, and Malcolm was smiling at other girls out in the common room.

She sat up, pulled her shirt around straight and let it hang off of one shoulder, looked up at him and pursed her lips. "So you _never _take advantage of a lady when she's drunk, you say?"

Theodore scrunched up his face. "No," he said. "And even if you weren't, and flattered as I am by how you picked me out of a vying crowd for this stunning effort of seduction you're putting forth here, I'm not really interested in being part of your little revenge plot." He snorted. "Honestly, you'd think you were the fourth year here, not him."

Pansy stared up at him, wide-eyed. "Wait, you know? You know about me and Malcolm?"

Theodore rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure half the House knows at this point, Parkinson. There's only so long you can stare at someone across the breakfast table before everybody figures out who you're staring at."

"But nobody's said anything…" Pansy could feel her lip start to tremble and she wasn't quite sure why. She decided after a moment that she probably blamed the vodka.

Theodore shrugged. "Because everybody's too busy staring at somebody else across the breakfast table to worry about who you're staring at for too long," he said. "Besides, everybody likes Baddock. He's a smart kid. It'd be different if you were going after Darren Pucey or somebody."

"Who?" Pansy asked.

"Never mind," Theodore said. He patted her shoulder and Pansy started to cry. Yes, she decided, she was definitely blaming the vodka.

But as Pansy cried, she suddenly felt much more alert, felt as though the grape and lemon and orange and strawberry vodka were dripping out of her with her tears, pooling at the bottoms of her feet, making her shoes heavy and sodden and hard to pick up off the floor.

Theodore, somewhat to her surprise, kept patting her shoulder, though his patting became perceptibly stiffer. "It's okay, Parkinson," she said, and then, as if it came as somewhat of a surprise to him, "You're all right."

And somehow, this never-sought approval from Theodore Nott of all people made Pansy's chest feel a little lighter, and she sniffed and hiccupped a couple of times, then wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Which was a bad idea, because it was covered in sequins and sort of scratched her face.

But maybe this was a good thing, because it made both her and Theodore laugh, and Pansy stood up and awkwardly stepped closer to him, put her arms around him and leaned her chin on his shoulder, closing her eyes. "Thanks, Theodore."

"Let's not go overboard," he said, but he hugged her back.

At which precise moment, because Pansy's life was determined to be as terrible as possible just when it looked like things were about to get better, Pansy heard the door opening.

Malcolm looked apprehensive, then their eyes met and his turned shocked and anguished before he spun out of the room. This time, the door shut with a dry click behind him, as if pulled by the force of his betrayed and wounded air.


	8. Snogging Heals All Wounds

Chapter Eight: Snogging Heals All Wounds

It all happened so fast that Pansy didn't quite know what to do. She stepped back from Theodore and looked at him wildly. "What should I do?" she asked.

Theodore shrugged. "I am not your wise guru, here solely to answer all of life's little questions for you," he said, then softened and sighed and rolled his eyes. "Go after him, Parkinson. You always go after them." And Pansy wondered at the fact that she'd never thought to think twice about Theodore Nott before tonight, and made a mental note to do so more often in future. For now, though, she ran.

She didn't have to run far. She saw Malcolm's cloak about to whip out of sight into the boys' dormitory and raced after him, catching hold of the hem just as the door was about to slide shut.

He made a strangled sound and staggered back a pace or two, into the darkness of the corridor, and Pansy stepped after him.

He turned to face her, his look resigned. Then he raised his eyebrows. "I mean, I know broken hearts are meant to be metaphorical and all," he said, "But there's no need to actually kill me dead in addition to all that, is there?"

And Pansy laughed, even though she could swear she'd never felt more miserable.

"That back there," she said, "With Theodore. That wasn't what you think. I mean, that wasn't anything." She was aware that she was babbling, and she could feel the heavy door trying to slide into her, to push her out of the boys' side and away from Malcolm, but she pushed back hard.

"It wasn't?" Malcolm asked, and his eyebrows rose higher and his voice did a little bit too, and Pansy just wanted to crush him to her and never let go.

"He was just giving me some advice," she mumbled. "Apparently he's pretty good at it."

"Oh yeah?" Malcolm asked, and Pansy could hear the hope in his voice, or maybe she was just wishing for it. "What did he advise you to do?"

"He said I should go after you," Pansy said, and she made sure to look into his eyes as she said it, because she needed to know right away, one way or another.

He looked down, then his gaze settled somewhere on her face, not quite meeting her eyes, and Pansy felt absolutely certain she would explode.

There was silence for a moment, then Malcolm said, "You've got a sequin stuck to your lip."

It was so utterly ridiculous that Pansy laughed, but it barely eased the tension in her stomach. "Where?" she asked, swiping at her mouth, secretly hoping that he would reach out and get it for her, that he would touch her there, anywhere, that he would do something to let her know she hadn't ruined it all forever.

"Here, let me get it," he said, and Pansy stopped breathing. Malcolm licked his thumb, then rubbed it across her bottom lip.

He showed her the metallic pink sequin now stuck to his thumb, then seemed to realize what he'd just done. "Sorry," he mumbled, embarrassed. "Force of habit."

She let her tongue dart out and run the same path as his thumb.

His breath hitched.

They stood, and breathed together, neither of them moving.

"That was really kind of gross," he said quietly, his mouth twitching up into a smile, and then finally, finally, he lifted his eyes and peeked up at her through the fringe that he still hadn't cut, that was reaching down almost to his nose now, and Pansy utterly despaired of him.

Pansy utterly loved him.

"I really just want you to kiss me now," she said.

His grin widened, and he started to lean toward her. Their noses were an inch apart when he pulled back, and Pansy made a noise that she would definitely deny ever having made ever.

"What?" she asked.

His grin stayed plastered to his face, but his eyes became something uncertain, and he searched her face as though he'd find the answer there.

Then his mouth turned resolute, and he stood up straight. "Only if I can kiss you in the common room, where everyone can see."

"Where everyone can see," Pansy repeated.

Malcolm nodded. "Where everyone can see."

Pansy could feel herself about to hesitate, could hear herself staring to think (what would Draco say? what would her _mother_?) but the thoughts weren't loud enough to drown out how much she wanted her mouth on his.

"Fine," she said, and she'd been afraid her voice would come out mean but it sounded triumphant instead. "You need me to prove this to you? I'll prove everything."

She grabbed his shirtfront and took three steps backward, dragging him with her into the light of the common room. It was a good thing it was a little bit blinding after the darkness of the corridor, because it was easier not to think in the sudden onslaught of light, instead just to feel for Malcolm's chin and bring his smiling mouth to hers, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and losing herself to everything else.

Pansy heard some gasps, a few giggles, and a couple of overly loud catcalls, but when she opened her eyes she saw that only a few heads in the common room were turned toward her (Theodore, arms crossed and leaning against the wall adjacent, gave her a nod) where she stood still entangled with Malcolm.

Everyone would know by tomorrow morning (everyone who didn't apparently know already, anyway), that was for sure. But for now, most Slytherin eyes and whispers were turned toward the opposite corner of the dungeon, where Draco Malfoy had Millicent Bullstrode pushed up against the wall, the two of them snogging as if the world was imploding and the suction of their lips was the only thing that could save it.


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

Pansy noticed a few heads turned her way as she approached the breakfast table the next morning, a few whispers not hushed quite quick enough, but much less of a to-do than she ever would have expected. Pansy supposed she must admit at some point that she was not actually the center of the universe. Not that she'd ever thought that, really.

Draco and Millicent (who had never returned to the dormitory last night, at least judging by the fact that she hadn't been there when Pansy had slipped back in at a quarter past six) were conspicuously absent from the Slytherin table, though Pansy wasn't sure whether they were taking cover from the gossip or simply involved in an activity that would rather not be interrupted.

She'd rather not think too hard about it, come to that.

Pansy was about to join Daphne at the table when she noticed that Daphne had her head bent low next to another ash-blonde head, talking quiet. Astoria. Pansy felt a brief flash of guilt that surprised her a little. She hadn't even considered how Astoria finding out about her and Malcolm would make the younger girl feel.

As Pansy watched, Astoria and Daphne lifted their heads and Astoria swung off the bench, giving her sister a smile and a tinkling laugh as she pranced down the table to sit at the opposite end. Pansy slid into her vacated spot.

"She all right?" she asked Daphne, jerking her head toward Astoria.

"Oh yes, I think so," Daphne answered. "Take a look for yourself." Pansy turned her head to see that Astoria had already turned her smile and her arm touching on Graham Pritchard, not seeming too terribly bothered about anything at all.

As Pansy helped herself to toast, she let the snippets of gossip wash over her. It seemed as if everyone was relaying the story of how Millicent and Draco were secretly dating, had been since they snuck off to snog on the first bonding Hogsmeade trip of seventh year, and it seemed clear that this was the gossip that would reign today and probably for the next month, until it was revealed that somebody had snuck off and done a shoot for Playwizard or something. Pansy had never considered before what a lucky, lucky person she really was, or how grateful she was for having such an unlikely scandalous friend like Millicent.

And Daphne, it transpired, had known all along.

"Really?" Pansy boggled later in the common room. "I mean, I understand how you figured out about me and Malcolm; he is utterly without subtlety. Sickeningly obvious, really." She tried to make her tone superior but could feel the smile creeping into it as she remembered the embarrassingly large carnation Malcolm had dropped on her toast this morning, just before he'd dropped a kiss onto the top of her head and plopped down beside her. "But how did you know about _them_?"

Daphne shrugged. "I see a lot more than people think I do, probably because people don't think of me as being someone who sees things." She was possibly attempting to go for a mysterious smile, but Pansy knocked her shoulder into hers.

"You're so strange, Daph," she said. "You're lucky I love all my friends unconditionally, or I'd be sidling away from you right now."

Daphne laughed, bringing up a hand to cover her mouth. "Also I saw Millicent sneaking into the seventh year boys' dormitory one night just as I was sneaking out of it, see. Nothing gets past me," she said, tapping the side of her head.

Pansy laughed too. "Ah yes, all-seeing and all-knowing, that's you."

Daphne leaned into Pansy's side. "But you're all right? I mean, you're happy?"

"Yeah," Pansy said, turning her head to look toward the fire, where Malcolm sat playing Gobstones with one of his weedy little friends. Pansy supposed she'd have to learn their no-doubt annoying names one of these days if she and Malcolm were really going to make a proper thing of it, a thought which made Pansy want to blush but also, even more embarrassingly, made her want to stand up and cheer. She didn't cheer, but she did stand, turning and beginning to make her way over to join him as she said over her shoulder to Daphne, "Yeah, I think I really am."


End file.
